KALYUG (22 page)

Karamchand Patil felt the first twinge of pleasure. He was one of the few politicians who had never cheated on his taxes, and he knew a few in his own camp he could throw to the wolves. Just for the fun of it.

We are also withdrawing the Z-Category security blanket, as well as all the allowances and pensions for the members of the 15th Lok Sabha.

‘Quick,’ ordered the MLA from Nagpur. ‘Call our boys and ask them to send a crate of guns.’ As his coterie of drivers and hangers-on scrambled to fulfil his command, he turned to his brother. ‘Everyone’s going to be gunning for us now.’

The policy paralysis has not just been internal – we have lost our moral compass on international relationships as well. There was a time when India argued on the grandest of stages for sovereignty and non-alignment; yet today, we stand isolated. We should not interfere in another nation’s internal affairs any more than we want their involvement in ours. We should not choose sides ignoring what we feel is right or just. We should not have voted against Sri Lanka or Iran simply because America said so. We should have used the chance to get Lanka to back off from attacking our fishermen.

‘Been there, seen it,’ said Sir Harold Holmes casually. ‘I was there when they had their previous Emergency. What it means is that for a little while, they are going to pretend they grew a spine.’

The Indo-American defence deal of 2009 – which I’d had reservations against – will be re-evaluated and if need be, scrapped. For us to enter such an agreement with a country that still denies us access to David Headley is not only callous, but also a sign that we are still a soft state for such criminal activities.

I am also pleased to announce a new Indo-Russian venture in developing a naval base in Tamil Nadu. This partnership will shore up our defences on the East Coast and enhance our capability to meet any challenge from the Pacific Ocean.

As you can see, there are plenty of things to fix . . . small things, medium, major . . . and these will require each of us to change the way we think. If we continue to think as we have for these last few years, India will never be a superpower in 2050, let alone 2020 . . . But if we remember that for thousands of years of her existence, our nation had never had to bow before any other power, such had been the wealth and richness . . . if we can remember that we are doing this not for us, but for our children . . . if you realize that you owe this to the nation as much as anything the nation has ever owed us . . . then spend the next few minutes planning how you are going to contribute, not stop us.

Jai Hind!

A light applause, quickly quelled, marked the end of the second part of GK’s presidential address. I found myself buying in and lost, in equal measure, for even as every policy he announced seemed to resonate with what the general public would want, there were far too many points to remember. Was it a case of information overload, I had to wonder, a deliberate attempt to blunt the immediate sense of opposition to the Emergency by announcing a slew of populist – and perhaps, ultimately quixotic – measures? It would not be the first time a government had tried that.

By the time the break ended, Richa was in position right next to GK. She seemed to be right at ease in front of the cameras, but there were movements – a tic here, an unnecessary toss of her hair there – that pointed to the nervousness within. Just as the countdown neared zero, our eyes met and I smiled and nodded at her. She gave a barely imperceptible nod before switching on her high-wattage smile and turning towards the president.

‘What if she sandbags him with questions you’ve not even thought of?’

Jagannath shrugged. ‘GK’s a seasoned politician, and he should be able to manage it. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.’

I was soon impressed by the way Richa drove the interview. Polite, but insistent, sharp, but not cunningly so. GK matched her question after question, parrying loaded queries with rhetorical statements, leading ones with more questions in return. For close to twenty minutes, she grilled him on the Emergency, its necessity and its timing, the various promises he had made, the federal structure that would be in place in the interim, the impact on the economy and foreign relations.

‘The drift in our policy-making has not just affected our internal dynamics, but it has also been reflected in our growing irrelevance in a global context. If others are interested in India, it is either because of our geographical importance or as an all-consuming dumping ground – and not because of our views or intellectual capital. Since the nuclear deal – in fact, especially since that time – we are being perceived more as a US mouthpiece than a neutral, thoughtful voice. And nowhere was this clearer than when we voted against Iran, or against Sri Lanka, on matters that we should have been very careful about.’

Keeping in character, I thought. GK had always exhibited strong anti-US sentiments, although I was not too sure about the propriety of using this broadcast as a platform to set India’s new foreign policy. GK went on to outline his plans for strengthening India’s relationships with the EU and the OPEC members, as well as helping rebuild Afghanistan ‘in every possible way except military intervention’.

It was towards the end of the interview that Richa asked the question she had been dying to ask.

‘Does the timing of declaring this Emergecy have anything to do with Major-General Iqbal Qureshi’s death last night?’

‘Major-General Iqbal Qureshi’s suicide, while tragic, has played no further role in this Emergency other than to highlight the rot that has set in within our system. That such an illustrious officer, a true patriot, could even be questioned about his commitment to this nation is symbolic of the times we live in.’

‘But if the investigation starts with the assumption that it was a suicide – as you have just stated – then how can we be sure that the truth will ever come out? What if there is something more to this tragedy?’

GK glanced at Nelson, who nodded, before looking straight into the camera. ‘Using the powers granted to my office,’ he said, a slight smile playing upon the corners of his mouth, ‘I have appointed an impartial, non-government, non-Army observer to oversee the investigation into the Major-General’s death. Political commentator and author Mr Balamurali Selvam – who had incidentally foreseen this Emergency in his book,
India, 2012
– will act as the amicus curiae for this case, and will submit, at the conclusion of the investigation, a report to the chief justice of India on the validity of the findings. His report will be made final after the CJI allows it, and you can see for yourself how thorough our investigating agencies can be.’

15

16th September, 2012. Washington, D.C.

President Timothy Jackson looked at Andrea Simps. He knew
she
knew he had already made the decision, but needed to hear him say it, to give her the authorization that would protect her in case things went wrong.

‘How would you do it?’

Simps smiled. ‘There is a group I’ve used in the past. They’re clean, and have enough sense not to leave any traces that lead back to us.’

Jackson’s stare was withering but Simps merely simpered back at him. ‘Between the CIA and the State Department, our business is far too important for them to screw up.’

The struggle within the president was obvious. His need to keep her reined in was as clear as if he had expressed it verbally, as was his instinct to limit the possession of knowledge too damaging to acknowledge.

‘If I may make a suggestion,’ said the chief-of-staff, understanding the other man’s dilemma.

President Jackson nodded.

‘Perhaps Simps should tell us a little more about this group she wants to employ, and then we can take a call about the operational side of things. If it seems unwise to proceed with her plan, we can always go back to the drawing board.’

Simps saw President Jackson nod again. They think they can put me on the spot, she thought contemptuously, that once I commit to a plan, they will be able to hold me to it.

But not a single trace of that contempt showed on her face as she began, taking a seat and making a show of pulling the hem of her skirt down. ‘The first time we used Powerhouse was when Russia invaded Afghanistan . . .’

16th September, 2012. Singapore.

The Asian headquarters of Powerhouse had a sense of serene calm about it, an anonymous skyscraper in a city with too many scraping the sky. Waterfront property was precious – as land generally was anywhere in Singapore – but nothing dared block the one corner that overlooked the bay. Powerhouse brought invaluable business to Singapore and the mandarins that ran the city-state, and the quid pro quo was a bargain that the latter did not want to give up. It was an unwritten law that nothing would come between the office of the Asian chief and his view of the seas that powered Singapore.

He had his back to the bank of television screens, his attention drawn almost hypnotically to the ships that weaved through the bay, but not a single word of the discussion escaped him. He was on a conference call with the other chiefs of Powerhouse.

To put it mildly, none of them were happy about the state of affairs in the subcontinent.

‘What’s intolerable,’ said the European chief from his chateau, ‘is that we’ve been hit, and hit very badly. When word gets out, other regimes are going to think that they can break us down in their territories, and everything we’ve worked for so far will go down the drain.’

‘I agree,’ said the American chief, a Texan, his drawl enhanced after decades of residence in Washington. ‘I’ve already alerted all the country heads in my sphere to be prepared to act within the next twenty-four hours. One show of strength to let anyone who even thinks of taking us on that India is the exception, and a temporary one at that.’

‘Just enough to emphasize,’ reaffirmed the European chief. ‘There is a point beyond which violence begets violence.’

‘Understood,’ said the Texan easily. The three men had worked together far too long to take umbrage at inputs. ‘That has been my message to the team as well.’

We are indeed a corporation, mused the Asian chief. Under the chiefs, you had the country heads, and under the country heads, you had regional heads for each arm – finance, defence, recruitment – who had their own field teams, self-sufficient silos ignorant of each other’s existence, knowing only that they belonged to a larger, unforgiving, results-oriented organization. He was a student of history – in fact, all three chiefs were required to be well-versed with the past as a tool for manipulating the present – but even the others would acknowledge that the Asian chief’s command was encyclopaedic.

He could easily recall the tumultuous days after the Second World War when the current council of Powerhouse had risen as a phoenix from the ashes of its pre-war avatar. The three men who headed it now had been mere striplings then, raised under the shadow of others who had pulled the strings of a manic war that their predecessors had unleashed. Along with the guilt, the former had also taken it upon themselves to restructure the organization to make it both efficient and invisible.

The Asian chief had no illusions about his role in the history of Powerhouse – like everyone else, it would be played out in anonymity, his protégé taking over one day and no one to miss him, just as he no longer missed his own mentor. But crises like these were responsibilities he could never walk away from. He could not allow the work of so many generations to be wiped out.

And there was no doubt in his mind that for whoever was behind the coup in India, the annihilation of Powerhouse was an important objective. Why else would they launch a systematic attack on his organization, breaking it down, knocking off the head? If it had been a coup merely for power, they would not have bothered with Powerhouse, except perhaps to reach an agreement of their own with the latter.

‘What about in India itself? What are the assets we can activate?’ asked Europe.

Before the Asian chief could reply, the American interrupted him. ‘Ah, pardon me. I’ve just got some mighty interesting news for you. I think you should hear this before you decide.’

‘Do go on,’ said the Asian chief obsequiously.

‘The US government wants us to help them in destabilizing the new regime and get the old one back in place.’

The three men absorbed the development in silence. Powerhouse had never owed an allegiance to a nation or to a theology other than money and influence; their low-profile nature had been deliberately cultivated to let governments assume that Powerhouse was a resourceful organization for hire, instead of being a policy-maker itself. To a large section of the American government machinery, this was the truth – only a handful of insiders, proponents and opponents both, knew that the interests ran deeper.

‘I vote we should accept,’ said the Asian chief, knowing that he had to cast the first vote as it was his territory after all. It was another unwritten code amongst the chiefs. ‘With the caveat that we will need time to do it right, this should give
us whatever cover we need to regroup. Plus, if there is any blowback on this, we can always take the trail right back to the White House and leave them holding the sack.’

‘I agree,’ said the American, ever-pragmatic.

The European chief concurred as well. ‘How can we assist you from our end? I assume you will need to ramp up your recruitments to get the right people into the right places . . .’

‘No,’ replied the Asian chief after a thoughtful pause. ‘It’s better to let things lie where they fall, and then get the right people
in
the right places. That way, we don’t tip our hand recruiting people who are going to be of no use to us – and it gives us time to collect enough proof about the vulnerabilities of those we
do
want in our hands.’

‘What about the leadership? Any word on the Sharmas?’

‘As of now, only Gyandeep has been located. Leela, I understand, is in custody and has probably been taken to a safe-house.’ The Asian chief gave a grim smile. ‘That’s the first favour we have demanded of Mrs Pandit for returning her to power. She needs to find out where they have taken Leela.’

16th September, 2012. New Delhi.

Jagannath tried to silence me by gripping my arm tight and putting a finger to his lips. I pulled away, indignation rapidly giving way to a white-hot fury. He must have seen something in my expression, something that told him I was not going to keep mum, and changed his tactics. ‘Outside,’ he muttered brusquely. ‘Not in here.’

The two of us walked out of the room even as they were wrapping up the shoot. No sooner had the door shut behind me than I gave him an earful.

‘What the fuck was that all about, Jagannath? Me, investigate Qureshi’s death? Are you guys crazy, or just plain dumb? Fuck, man . . . fuck it. Fuck you!’

Jagannath held up a placating hand. ‘Cool, Selvam. Cool down . . . Hear me out.’

‘Why the fuck should I?’ The training from a former girlfriend – who had attempted to reform me from an excessive use of the f-word – was forgotten. ‘You’ve been feeding me bullshit from the beginning. I’ve had enough of this! Screw you and your INSAF . . . I’m leaving.’

I turned on my heels and started to walk away. Jagannath tried to stop me but I swatted his hand away. He placed his hand on my shoulder again and tried to turn me around. I whirled around and socked him in the stomach. It was not my strongest punch, but even then, it barely seemed to knock any air out of him. His grip hardened and the other hand was cocked back before I had even registered it, his eyes going dark and violent, but then, just as rapidly, I felt him relaxing. He let go of my shirt and dropped his arms to his sides.

‘Look, Selvam . . .’ he began, taking a step back, bringing his hands up once again but not combative, palms outward, a picture of contrition and surrender. ‘I am sorry we had to spring it on you like this, but we did not want to take a chance that you would say no before GK announced it. We didn’t have a choice.’

Maybe it was his sincerity. Maybe it was my guilt at having punched him. Or maybe it was just fatal curiosity. I started to count to twenty.

Then, calmer – although not by much – I asked him the same question I had been repeating through the day. ‘Why me? I have zero experience with this sort of thing, and I’m sure you could have gotten someone else with more experience. Even Richa, I guess. Assuming you do want to see this investigation through.’ Suddenly, it struck me that maybe I was to be the smokescreen for a rigged investigation.
That would explain a lot.

‘No, I don’t, and yes, we do. We didn’t want Richa because she knew the major-general, and her call of duty might interfere with the demands of the investigation – for instance, withholding crucial information in case of foul play. That discounts her, and any other journalist. As for cops . . . well, the cops
are
investigating this. You will merely be overseeing their reports, check for inconsistencies, see if something doesn’t add up . . . a bit of armchair detecting.’

I was shaking my head, rejecting his arguments because I thought them weak to the point of being laughable. Nothing still explained why I had been the one in a billion to be chosen for this role.

‘And besides, you do not have any relationship to any of the Armed Forces. None whatsoever, and so you cannot be influenced the way we suspect Major-General Qureshi was.’

‘What do you mean? Every newspaper today has been singing paeans about how incorruptible he was.’

‘Qureshi had a son – a major. Nawaz Qureshi. He’s in Special Ops and on a top-secret assignment. We suspect Powerhouse had something on the son and was using that to get to the father.’

‘What was the relationship between father and son like?’

‘That’s exactly why we need someone like you looking in from the outside,’ Jagannath said. ‘You do not have a preconceived notion about the finer aspects of this case. You are not tied to anybody, emotionally or financially. And with your imagination and cynicism, you aren’t going to swallow any reports until you are completely satisfied yourself.’

Before I could offer any rebuttal, he made his final pitch. ‘We are talking about a decorated war veteran, a patriot beyond reproach, a man who continued to serve the country even in the face of personal tragedy. A man who fought terrorists and took on the system. We can’t do half the things he did, but the one thing you can do in his memory is to find out why he died. This country owes him that much. You and I owe him that much.’

16th September, 2012. INSAF HQ, New Delhi.

The control room at the heart of the building was a beehive of activity as different arms of the operation continuously communicated back and forth. In many places, raids were happening at different levels – police officers, bureaucrats, business houses, government offices, party offices and politicians’ residences. Money and contraband, long suspected, were confiscated, vindicating the efforts of those who had always tried to uphold the law. For many, it was a pleasant surprise to be called up to execute their duty without any interference from within or without.

Only the big fish were targeted, however, because the time-frame was limited. The whole country was stunned into inaction – but there was no way to predict how long that would last. INSAF had to make an impact before nightfall, because that was what all the simulations had recommended. What would happen once people started reacting to the Emergency was anybody’s guess.

Two of the coordinators made the same call within minutes of each other, but to different operators. Both times, the instruction was to transfer the respective prisoners to the safe-house in New Delhi. The only difference was that the recipient of the first call was also informed that a chartered flight was waiting to bring them from Mumbai to the capital.

The flying time from Mumbai to New Delhi is a little over two hours, time that Nawaz Qureshi spent dutifully ignoring Leela Sharma and thinking about his parents. The morning’s action had helped him overcome the initial shock of his father’s death, but now, with two hours of nothing on his
hands, it hit him hard and heavy. His mother’s death had created a vacuum that had sucked a good part of the world inside; his father’s departure seemed to empty what was left. He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. His father did not like tears.

It took the team from Ghaziabad a little over two hours to reach the safe-house near the New Delhi airport. The two men in the truck had had little to worry about with the American spy they’d picked up – they could focus on the evasive measures they’d been trained in while on the road. The precautions were unnecessary, the concerns unfounded; they handed Llong Cox over to the warden and were on their way even before the American had settled into his cell right next to Leela Sharma.